


Sugar And Spice

by Narya_Flame



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Competition, Equestrian, Escapism, F/M, Fluff, Horses, Romance, Self-Discovery, Sports, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, let them have nice things, referenced animal death, uncomplicated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:28:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26304154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Elfhild is at the Arda Games in Dol Amroth as Rohan's reserve for the equestrian cross country event - though she can't help wishing she'd been selected to ride.  A budding friendship with her prince and team-mate softens the blow, but both the past and present have a knack of throwing up obstacles when they're least expected...
Relationships: Elfhild/Théoden Ednew
Comments: 15
Kudos: 10
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Sugar And Spice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rogercat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rogercat/gifts).



> Written for TRSB20, inspired by [Rogercat/Nelyasun's art.](https://www.deviantart.com/nelyasun/art/Horse-Master-852878311)
> 
> This was the original prompt:
> 
> “Modern AU. Prince Théoden meeting his future wife Elfhild as she wins Arda's Horse Olympics and it just "clicks" between them at once.”
> 
> Later, as we were brainstorming, Nelya requested an appearance by Théoden's sisters, with the names she has given them in her own fics - Laywyn, Sunnwyn, Mildwyn and of course Théodwyn. They only show up for one scene, I'm afraid - Théoden, Elfhild and her horse somewhat took over! - but hopefully it's enough to get the family dynamics across.
> 
> Nelya, I hope you enjoy the story.

“I don't think we've been introduced.”

Elfhild turned – slowly – and smiled. She recognised him, of course, though it was true they didn't _know_ one another. Oh, they'd been in the same room together plenty of times, ridden in the same competitions, but one didn't simply wander up to the heir to the throne and start gossiping about which riders were in form, which horses might be coming to market, and which trainers were in whose pocket.

He would have been striking whatever his background – tall, strong without bulk, still young but without the naïveté of extreme youth. Dol Amroth's sunshine had kissed his skin into a soft golden-tan; his wavy hair, dark blond, was cut close to his head; his eyes were startlingly blue and as sharp as broken sea-glass. But there was something, she thought, about that smile – knowing, teasing, and yet utterly, entirely kind.

“I'm Elfhild.” She held out her hand. “Elfhild Smyth.”

He shook it, his grip careful but firm. “Théoden.”

“Yes.” She met his eyes, her smile now wry. “Yes, I know who you are.”

He laughed a little, eyes sparkling “Well. One shouldn't assume.” He indicated the railings she was leaning against. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He rested his forearms on the sleek white plastic. A warm breeze whispered in from the bay, bringing with it the taste of salt-spray and the smell of the docks. “Quite something, isn't it?”

“It's beautiful.” She sucked on her tongue, irritated with herself. _By Felaróf and Eorl the Young, girl, can't you do better than that?_ “Wonderful view.” _No. No, apparently I cannot._

The prince shot her a look – knowing, understanding, amused – and she blushed.

“Have you been here before?” he asked.

“Not for some time. There was none of this here, not then.” She gestured at the athletes' village rising behind them – low-rise, stepped apartment blocks, bathed in pink by the setting sun – and the criss-crossed web of tarmac paths below, lined with neat, slim, trimmed trees. “I stayed in the city, but we didn't have time to do a lot of exploring; it was a one-day event, at the stadium out on the south promontory...”

“Oh, of course; how stupid of me.” He tipped his head back as though in remonstration with himself. “The South-western Eventing Trials two years ago. You rode beautifully; I watched the footage.”

Elfhild lifted her eyebrows, wondering if he was merely flattering her.

“When Hulac got off his stride before that table fence, I thought he'd clip it and you'd both fall.” Théoden's smile widened. “But you kept your head and steered him through. It was very impressive; my sister said it was like you'd glued yourself to the saddle.”

She managed to smile in response. “Thank you.” A deep breath, a careful swallow. “To be honest, I thought I was going to come off too.”

Théoden exhaled softly, seeming to realise he'd touched a raw nerve. “You must miss him very much.”

She nodded, blinking against the hot sting of tears.

“It wasn't your fault, you know.” Gently, he laid a hand on her arm. “I watched that footage too.”

Elfhild pressed her lips together. She wasn't going to cry in front of the prince. She _wasn't._ It had been more than a year – and she hated that she _resented_ it, almost as much as she grieved the loss of the horse who had been her companion and anchor since the earliest days of her professional career. On Hulac, she knew, she'd have been in the team; she wouldn't be here in Dol Amroth as their reserve. The also-ran. The backup choice, in case anything went wrong.

Théoden squeezed her wrist, a little uncertainly. “Sugar is a good horse.”

“I know.” The rose grey mare was more highly strung than Hulac, but she was faster and lighter, strong with it, and brave – and frighteningly intelligent. It was just that they didn't know each other as well. Their technical scores were excellent, but she couldn't yet read her new horse the way she'd been able to read Hulac – and the young mare didn't yet respond to her in quite the same way. Hulac had seemed to answer her thoughts rather than her touch, and she'd always known exactly what he was going to do before he did it. She'd even known, somehow, coming up to that bank, that something wasn't quite right, that even with a careful pace and minimal impulsion that he'd stumble on the descent – and so he had, and the snap of that delicate leg had seared through her soul and bone...

_It won't happen again._

She took another breath. “Actually I call her Spice. 'Sugar And Spice' is too much of a mouthful for every day, and Sugar by itself is too sweet for her, so...”

“She doesn't seem bad-tempered.”

“She isn't. She's just...interesting. Occasionally throws something a little unexpected into the mix.” Elfhild smiled – properly, this time. “So I call her Spice.”

“Fair enough.” Théoden nodded. “Sugar and spice and all things nice...”

Rich, viscous evening light poured over the bay. Gulls circled overhead, chasing, squawking, shrieking. Already they were causing a nuisance in the athletes' village, flocking around the fast food outlets, stealing anything that looked edible and unattended – and, on occasion, stealing hamburgers and fish suppers right out of peoples' hands. Elfhild chuckled as a trio of them, still speckled with fledgling fuzz, squabbled over a paper bag. She lifted her eyes to the city, and despite standing next to the prince, despite the battle she'd had to get here on a brand new horse, she felt a quiet kind of peace settle over her. The white spires of Dol Amroth, bathed in the soft-edged glow of the setting sun, were like something from a world out of time – though industrial bustle of the harbour and the wharf in front of them, and the pair of gleaming blue-and-white cruise ships in the bay, told another story.

“You said that last time you were here, you didn't get to spend any time in the city.”

“No.” Elfhild looked at him, not entirely sure whether she was reading this correctly. “I didn't.”

A touch of mischief curled through Théoden's smile. “Well, there's no time like the present.”

“You're joking.”

“No; no, I'm quite serious.” He grinned, looking almost boyish now. “I'm sure it isn't good for us to be cooped up in here. We'll be stir crazy by the time training starts -”

“- which is in about sixteen hours,” Elfhild replied, laughing.

“Earlier than that for me. The ground's a lot harder here than Blue's used to; I want to get him warmed up properly, make sure he's used to the look and feel of the place.”

“Well, there you are then.” But even so there was no real reason _not_ to go out, no official edict to prevent them from leaving; the athletes' village was only meant to give them their own space, away from the prying eyes of the press and public. It wasn't authorised or even intended to keep the competitors in – admittedly the heir to the throne of Rohan might have his own protocols to follow, but Rohan's royal family were not like the Gondorian stewards. It wasn't unusual for the royalty of Rohan to go about in public without ceremony or protection, and all of the King's children had their own careers, as well as lives and homes of their own.

Théoden's blue eyes gleamed – still good-natured, but with a touch of something else now, a kind of wildness, and a deep-seated love of adventure. She wasn't exactly dressed for a night on the town, in her yellow t-shirt dress and her white slip-on plimsolls, but she already knew what she'd say, if he pressed her.

“Come on.” He tilted his head, half-invitation, half-challenge.

Elfhild looked back at the city of columns and spires. “Alright.” Excitement warmed her blood and crept through her cheeks. “Why not?”

Théoden held out his hand. She placed her own into it; her heart bounded, and her breath ran cool in her throat.

They skirted the edge of the lounge, avoiding the crowds at the air hockey tables and karaoke machines. Instead of the lift they ran down the stairs, then crossed the cafeteria – deserted now, except for an elderly cleaner, who shook his head at them and smiled – and followed the wandering tarmac paths to the edge of the village, where a fleet of executive taxis waited, ready to take the athletes and their trainers anywhere they might wish to go.

“Selwine's Cellar Bar, please,” Théoden requested. “In the Artists' Quarter.”

“I know where you mean, sir.” The driver turned the key in the ignition. “Shouldn't take long, not at this time.”

“Selwine's?” Elfwine looked at him curiously. “That sounds Rohirric.”

“And so it is. Old Selwine cooked for the Hall, back in my grandfather's day.”

The driver lifted his eyes and looked into his rearview mirror at this, but was evidently too well trained to comment on the fact that he had royalty in his vehicle.

“And he retired here?” Elfwine guessed.

“In a manner of speaking.” Théoden smiled, shaking his head. “I think he's busier now than he ever was in Rohan, but he seems happy. And the seafood is _wonderful._ ”

“I ate already,” confessed Elfwine.

“The cafeteria food?”

She smiled ruefully.

“I think we can do a little better than that.”

They sped through the city as the twilight merged to dark. The suburbs, new and plain, soon gave way to the meandering streets and slim, domed towers of the old town. Lanterns of curlicued iron cast shafts of white-gold light over the road; tourists, gathered for the Games, sat outside bars and restaurants under canopies of ivy-twine and fairy-lights, laughing over their wine and food. The Court of the Fount was closed to cars, but through the taxi window Elfhild glimpsed the great plumes of water leaping skyward, frothed like lace, with soft trails of spray-mist blowing in the evening breeze. The great twin spires of the observatory sat benevolently above it all - and then they turned onto a winding street behind the city hall, along a street lined with tiny shops selling sweets and ice-cream and jewellery made of sea-shells and pearl. Elfhild wasn't entirely sure of their direction – it was hard to keep track in the maze-like city centre – but she thought that they were heading towards the southern sea wall.

They came to a halt outside a leaning, cream-coloured building with sage-green shutters and walls covered in blowsy apricot roses. They _were_ closer to the sea here, she realised; she could both smell it and hear it, whispering softly against the rocks at the promontory's foot.

“Thank you.” Théoden handed the driver a generous tip; Elfhild reached for her bag, and her heart and stomach switched places as she realised she'd left it back at the village, lying on her bed.

“I'm so sorry, I don't - ”

Théoden shook his head. “It's alright.”

“But I've nothing to -”

“Don't worry.” Again the boyish grin. “You can pay next time, if you like – once we've finished competing. We can celebrate a comprehensive victory over the Gondorians, and drink to the bright future of our team.”

 _Next time?_ Elfhild wondered, and found her stomach fluttering.

He led her into a cool, red-tiled atrium and down a narrow flight of stairs. Watercolour paintings of the view over the bay adorned the walls. Her plimsolls scuffed against the bare stone, and a warm, chattering buzz and the scent of oil and herbs and garlic rose up from below.

“It isn't a cellar – not really,” Théoden explained. “The house is built over five levels; Selwine lives on the top two, he doesn't use the attics, and the rest...”

Elfhild soon saw. The stairs turned a sharp corner and deposited them into an open-plan dining room. The floor was set with red tiles, like the atrium, and the cream plastered walls were barely visible under the jumble of photographs, portraits, paintings, mosaics, fishing nets, tapestries, pieces of driftwood, bracketed lamps and small potted plants that covered them. The tables were set simply with white cloths and plain cutlery; it was getting late, but there were still plenty of diners here, chattering over plates of glistening, buttery prawns, rainbow-coloured vegetables, and artful concoctions of chocolate, ice-cream and fruit. There was another staircase to Elfhild's right, which, judging from the serving staff bustling up and down it and the delicious sounds and smells wafting upwards, led to the kitchens. At the back of the room a set of great sliding doors opened onto a terrace dotted with smaller tables, palm trees and chimineas, and beyond that, the moonlit sea glittered under a sky of deepening violet.

“What do you think?”

There was a touch of teasing smugness now in Théoden's tone.

“Very nice.”

Théoden chuckled, but before he could reply, a broad-shouldered man in his sixties with waves of wild white hair emerged from the kitchens, and let out a bellow of delight.

“Hello, Selwine,” Théoden grinned.

Selwine's initial glee at seeing the young prince had attracted the attention of nearby diners; he winced by way of apology, vigorously shook Théoden's hand, and said more quietly, “I hadn't expected to see you yet – if at all. I thought they'd be keeping you under lock and key at the village.”

“Not quite.” Théoden turned and gestured to Elfhild. “Selwine, this is Miss Elfhild Smyth; she rides on our team.”

“Well, I'm the reserve, anyway.” Elfhild did her best to keep her tone light as Selwine kissed her hand.

He showed them to a quiet, semi-private table on the corner of the terrace, with a view out over the ocean.

“And if you get cold, Miss Smyth, you've only to say.” Selwine slid her chair in for her. “We can bring you a heater over, or supply you with a rug -”

“I don't think I could get cold,” she laughed. The sun had set completely, but the lazy warmth of summer still lingered in the air.

Selwine left them with menus, and an assurance that their choice of wine was on the house.

“We'd better not drink too much,” Elfhild said as she read down the wine list. “We can't start training with a hangover.”

“No, indeed. Soraya would kill us slowly and then string our entrails over the park as a warning to the rest of the team.”

“No, she wouldn't,” laughed Elfhild. “Because without you she wouldn't _have_ a team.”

Théoden folded his menu and gave her a considered look. “Elfhild, you do know that you'd walk into most national cross country teams, don't you?”

She didn't reply to that, not quite sure what to say.

“And if it hadn't been for Hulac's fall, you'd have been on _our_ team instead of Déor.”

That, she knew to be true – but the grief still stung, and her next remark left her mouth before it registered in her brain. “Easy for you to say, when your father has a say in who's selected.”

Théoden raised his eyebrows. “My father is far harder on me than he would be on any other rider. He has to be, otherwise of course the world would cry foul. I'm here because I'm very good at what I do.”

“And why is that?” she shot back. “Because you've been around horses your entire life, and your family had you jumping log fences before you could even walk in a straight line?”

For a moment, he looked like he might argue, then he shrugged one shoulder and unfolded his menu again. “Perhaps.”

Elfhild's cheeks burned. “I'm sorry. That wasn't fair.”

“Oh, I don't know.” He looked out over the sea for a long moment, and then turned back and gave a quick half-smile. “Are your family here?”

“No. My mother died when I was a little girl.”

“Now _I'm_ sorry.”

“It was a riding accident.” And too long ago, now, for her to cry over it, though at times it would pounce in her unwary moments, and she would burn with longing for the woman with soft dark hair who smelled like herbs and summer grass, the woman that photographs told her she now so resembled. “And my father didn't want _me_ riding after that, but it was too late. She'd corrupted me already. It was under my skin and in my blood.” She smiled, a little regretfully, thinking of the sheer thrill she'd felt when she galloped Hulac, or soared over ditches and fences with him, utterly trusting. “Still, he says he can't bear to be around when I'm competing, even this time, when I'm only a reserve. Especially not after...” She stopped and swallowed. That particular grief was still too near.

Lightly, Théoden touched the back of her hand.

They ate grilled scallops with melting smoked cheese, a cool, herbed salad of octopus and beans, and salty, spiced, pan-fried peppers that prickled the tongue and gums. At Selwine's recommendation, Théoden chose a pale white wine that tasted of gooseberries and early summer frosts, and they lingered and talked over warm herbal teas as the terrace and dining room emptied around them. When it really was too late to stay any longer, Selwine telephoned for a cab to take them back to the village; the streets, Elfhild saw, were no quieter now, though the crowd was younger, chattering happily in bars or dancing to live bands that sounded like the sun and romance.

Théoden walked her back to her room, and they paused outside the door.

“Thank you for taking me out.” Elfhild smiled apologetically. “I'm sorry again about my bag. I promise I will pay next time.” She coloured, realising what she'd just said. “If there is a next time.”

Théoden grinned. “I hope there will be.”

She hesitated, unsure of what to do next. If he'd been a friend, someone she knew well, she'd have kissed his cheek – but he was her team-mate, and her prince. Eventually, she held out her hand.

Théoden shook it solemnly, though there was mischief in his eyes again. “Goodnight, Elfhild.”

*

She was in the shower when the phone rang the next morning. At first she intended to leave it – she wasn't late, so it couldn't be anyone harrying her to get down to the training ground – but after it rang out twice and then three times, she tucked a towel around herself and answered.

“Hello?”

“Elfhild?”

“ _Théoden?_ ” She was so startled that she forgot all formality – not that they had been at all formal the previous night.

“Can you come to my room?”

“I don't know where it is. And I've got wet hair.” _Idiot,_ she scolded herself as the words left her mouth. _“I've got wet hair,” honestly..._

He laughed a little – but there was something about it, a hollow note like an echo of shock. “I can give you directions, and don't worry about your hair. Just...please come. Soraya's here too.”

And others, thought Elfhild, hearing the murmur of more than one voice in the background, but she kept her curiosity to herself. “Alright. Tell me where to go. I won't be long.”

Théoden's room was on the top floor, near a lift – a corner suite with plenty of windows, and next to a fire escape. Sensible, really, she thought. It wasn't unusual for royalty to compete in the Games, but it seemed like a reasonable precaution to ensure their accommodation was difficult for intruders to reach, and easy for the prince to leave in an emergency.

He was pale under his tan when he opened the door, and as she stepped into the room, she saw that his right arm was in a sling. “Oh, _no_...Théoden, what happened?”

“I was out warming Blue up first thing. He stumbled a little – he's fine, but I came off. It's broken, I'm afraid.” Théoden grimaced. “I did say he wouldn't like the ground here...”

“It doesn't matter how it happened.” The sharp tones of Soraya Variag, their coach, snapped through their conversation. “The point is that it has. Elfhild, come in, don't hover there in the doorway.”

“Sorry.” She stepped into the room properly. Despite everything, Théoden gave her a sympathetic smile and wink – she guessed he was well to used to the razor edge of Soraya's tongue – and then she saw who else was with them, and stifled a gasp of surprise.

_This is turning into quite the morning._

Théoden's sisters, the princesses Laywyn, Sunnwyn, Mildwyn and Théodwyn, were all gathered in the room. Laywyn stood by the windows, straight-backed, arms folded, looking for all the world like the soldier she was. Sunnwyn was cross-legged on the bed; Mildwyn sat in the armchair with a cushion hugged to her chest; Théodwyn, perched on the dresser, smiled sweetly at Elfhild as she entered.

Elfhild smiled back, and nodded her head. She wasn't given to shyness, but nor was she used to unexpectedly finding herself in a room with five members of the royal family. She glanced at the wardrobe, almost wondering whether King Thengel and Queen Morwen might hop out of it to wish her good day.

“This is Elfhild.” Théoden gestured around the room. “Elfhild – my beloved sisters.”

Elfhild looked at him sharply. Was he irritated with them, she wondered, for fussing and crowding around him? She'd known they were staying nearby, of course – and Théodwyn must have a room somewhere in the athletes' village, she was competing in the javelin later in the week...

 _Never mind that now._ She glanced at Soraya, whose face was like a thundercloud, and then back at Théoden. “I take it you can't ride, then?”

Théoden shook his head. For a wild moment Elfhild entertained the idea that he'd done something mad and noble, and fallen from his horse on purpose after their conversation at Selwine's last night – but no. There was no feigning the bitter disappointment in his eyes, the twist of his mouth as he admitted the truth. “No. That's it for me – at least for this Games.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“So am I.” Soraya shook her head – and then her brown eyes settled on Elfhild. “Luckily, we have an excellent reserve.”

Elfhild took a breath. _I'm going to ride..._ A kind of giddy, fizzing excitement rose through her bones, followed by a sick wave of doubt. She and Spice had managed excellent results all through the season, but at her first Games, she couldn't help longing for the horse she'd known so well and would have trusted with her life.

“Are you alright?” Théoden touched her arm.

“I'm fine.” She bit her lip “Though I wish...”

“I know.”

Théodwyn glanced between them, and another smile crept over her face, not unlike the knowing, teasing look her brother had worn the night before.

“You wish it had been Déor and not Théoden. So do I, believe me,” Soraya said drily. “Although that is absolutely not to be repeated. But we must work with what we've got.”

That wasn't the only thing that Elfhild wished at that moment – but Soraya was quite right. She banished thoughts of her beautiful bay gelding. “I'll do whatever you need.”

“Just ride well.” Soraya's face relaxed into a smile.

“Like you always do,” Théodwyn added.

After a little more talk of logistics and some rearrangement of training schedules, Elfhild took her leave and escaped to the stables on the edge of the athletes' village. Théoden's horse, Dashing Blue, was stabled next to Sugar And Spice, and he whinnied at her approach.

“That's quite enough from you,” she scolded him gently. “You've put us into a very pretty mess.”

Spice snickered, craning her neck out over the stable door. She really was beautiful, Elfhild thought wistfully, rubbing the elegant nose – pinkish grey, with a silky mane that blazed the same orange as the sun over the plains of Rohan in summer.

“What do you think, then, girl?” she murmured. “Time to put the past to bed?”

Spice snorted, as though to say, _I'm not the one thinking about all that, thank you very much._

“No. No, you aren't, are you.”

The bony head came to rest on her shoulder. She breathed in the sweet scent of hay, and the mare's hot breath ruffled her hair. The big dark eyes blinked.

“So shall we show them what we're made of?”

Another snort.

“That's the spirit.”

*

Despite their season's results, Elfhild knew they were considered an outside chance for a medal in the individual event – though bizarrely, the odds on Rohan taking gold for the team event had shortened since Théoden's mishap.

“Ignore it,” Soraya told them all shortly. “The public like a sob story, and their money follows their sympathies.”

Elfhild did ignore it. She kept out of the way of the press pack who hovered at the gates of the village; she stayed off the internet, and though she was sociable enough with her fellow athletes, she avoided alcohol and long, late nights. There were no more trips into Dol Amroth - although she was careful not to over-train, not wanting to exhaust herself or her horse.

_You've put the work in. It will be alright._

Most of the time she believed it – although as the day crept closer, her dreams grew vivid and she struggled to get an unbroken night's sleep. They followed a similar pattern. She would arrive at the eventing course, and find that it had all been a misunderstanding; Hulac was alive and well, and she could ride him after all. Halfway round, though, coming up to a steep drop fence, she'd look to her right and see her mother, holding Spice by the bridle – and then she'd look down, and realise there was no horse underneath her at all...

“It's idiotic,” she sighed, drinking coffee with Théoden in the cafeteria the afternoon before the event – her treat, this time.

“No; no, it isn't. It's completely understandable.” He tore off a chunk of the blueberry muffin they were sharing. “When I first started competing professionally, I used to dream that I'd turned up to an event without my jodhpurs and had to jump the entire course in my underwear.”

Elfhild burst out laughing. “I'm not going to start analysing that.”

“No; probably for the best.” He gave her one of those knowing, teasing smiles. “But I meant what I said that night in Dol Amroth. Any team here would be lucky to have you.”

Heat crept up her neck and through her cheeks. “Next time, I hope we're _both_ on the team.”

“I hope so too.”

She went to bed early the night before the event. She knew she wouldn't sleep, but she decided it would be better to relax on her own, with a cup of ginger tea and a book, than to spend the evening with her team-mates, analysing and over-thinking and ratcheting her nerves up beyond healthy levels.

When she got to her room she saw there were two envelopes on her pillow –they must have been slotted under the door, and then left on her bed by the cleaner. Inside one of them was a note from Théoden, scribbled in biro on Games-branded notepaper.

_You don't need luck, but I'll wish it for you anyway. I'll be cheering from the sidelines – and waiting to take you for a drink afterwards!_

She smiled.

The other to her astonishment, was a card from her father.

_My darling,_

_I will keep this short. I don't suppose there's much to say, except that I haven't always supported you in the way that a parent ought to support a child and their dreams. You know why, but even so I feel I should say that I'm sorry._

_I didn't want to disturb you by telephoning (although I expect they have you trained to block out unwanted distractions) but I wanted you to know that I'll be watching tomorrow. I would hate you to think I wasn't proud._

_All my love to you, dearest girl._

Elfhild took a deep breath, surprised by the prickle of tears in her nose and throat.

*

After a little light rain in the night, the morning was warm and reasonably clear. They couldn't have asked for better conditions – nor, Elfhild thought as she watched the big screen, a more favourable set of results from the other teams.

“Always helpful when the main competition gets sent for an early bath,” Théoden had grinned as they watched Beregond Bergil, Gondor's most fancied rider, climb his way out of the water complex after his horse refused a fence.

“Don't say things like that.” She nudged him with her elbow – gently, not wanting to jostle his bad arm. “It might be bad luck.”

“Nonsense. And even if it were, I know how to counter it.”

“Oh? How?”

His blue eyes gleamed. “I'll tell you when you've ridden.”

By the time it was her turn, Rohan were already sitting pretty on the scoring board. Déor was currently in eighth, and Idis, their most experienced rider, was looking unassailable in first.

“No other team has two riders in the top ten,” Soraya told her as she warmed up.

“I know. I can read.”

A lifted eyebrow.

“Sorry.”

“Keep your head,” Soraya instructed. “You know the course; we've walked it plenty of times. Hold your line, watch her stride on the slopes, let her go on the gallops – but not too much. You need to be able to get the brakes on for the tight corners.” She patted Spice's neck. “If you can get round without penalties and stay inside the time, that should be all we need to win.”

“All?” Elfhild echoed, laughing a little despite the adrenaline making her limbs light.

Soraya smiled. “Keep her head up on that drop fence.”

Elfhild swallowed, and nodded.

The start box was a decent size, and the rose grey mare had got the worst of the fidgets out of the way during warm up. She seemed settled now, Elfhild thought – alert, keen to go, but not jittery. A couple of head tosses, a little prancing, nothing worse. There were plenty of spectators in the stands, and, she gathered from the screens, around the park at key points on the course – on the bends, by the big jumps and the water complexes, and on the flats by the finish. Some of them had brought blankets and canopies and drinks and even picnics. It seemed odd to Elfhild, so many people making a day of it, gawping and cheering at the thing she lived and breathed and worked at and trained for – and then there was no more time to think. The countdown began, the whistle pierced the air, and she was out of the blocks at a canter, heading straight for her first fence.

 _Hold your line._ Soraya's voice sounded in her mind.

Spice soared through the great golden horseshoe, and Elfhild grinned fiercely. _Oh, good girl._

She forgot the crowds; she forgot the sun's heat, and the itch of the helmet on her head. There was only her and her horse, and a set of obstacles between her and the finish. And Spice might be highly strung at times, but she was brave, and she was _fast_. 

_We're going to do this._

With utter economy they made it through the first water complex that had defeated Beregond Bergil, and then she gathered her horse back in to take the uphill bend before the box fence. It was broad, and high, but Spice shot for it like a bolt from a crossbow, and eased her pace almost without being asked for the sequence of offset fences.

_Easy, now. Well done._

Next was the bullfinch, a great solid fence with several feet of brush on top – to be jumped through, not over. Hulac had never liked these, but had never refused to jump one for her; Spice, though, showed no fear at all, throwing herself through the greenery and galloping over the flat, then on to the downward slope and the next water complex. She heard the commentator's voice on the speakers but couldn't make out his words as she adjusted her line, steering Spice away from the waving shadows of the palm trees, not wanting her to be spooked by a strange dark shape crossing her field of vision.

The splash of water around her thighs was refreshing, and this time the crowd's cheers did register. Dimly she wondered if she was making good time. She had to be, surely – though Spice wasn't working unduly hard – but here came another difficult stretch, a series of narrow log fences surrounded by wildflowers, some tight bends, stamina-sapping gradients, and then a great wide table jump, close to the maximum height and breadth allowed under the rules of the sport. Elfhild's blood sang as she gave Spice her head, let her gallop at it, flew over without so much as a rustle...

_Oh, this is glorious!_

But the drop fence was next, the great sheer bank that was so like the one where she had lost Hulac. She had walked the course six times with Soraya and voiced no concerns, though the sharp-eyed Khandian had almost certainly not been fooled.

_It won't happen twice. It won't happen twice._

_“Keep her head up on that drop fence...”_

She slowed the horse's pace right down, heart in her throat. Spice tossed her head, wanting to keep going, to run, but she followed her rider's lead and eased off the speed.

_Come on, beautiful girl. Head up, head up, head up..._

She leaned right back in the saddle. Delicately, calmly, Spice dropped over the fence and down the bank, flicked her tail, and fell back into a canter.

The home strait was easy enough – a nice gallop into the stadium, a couple of swan-shaped fences that Spice cleared with room to spare, then a tunnel and an angled rolltop and a pair of skinny jumps, then one final table, flanked by a pair of replica towers built to resemble the famous observatory in the city centre. The crowd were cheering, it must be a good time; Spice was tiring now, but her pace was still strong and she threw herself at the final obstacle – and landed cleanly on the other side.

Elfhild dug deep for the gallop over the finish line, though she knew by now that she must be under the time – and Spice had refused nothing, clipped nothing, grazed nothing...there could be no penalties. They'd already done everything they needed and more, but even through the exhaustion, the relief, she found her mother's stubborn streak burning, urging her to go for just that little bit longer, pushing her, telling her to be the best she could possibly, possibly be...

Thinking of her father as well, she laughed as she crossed the finish line and rode into the roar of the crowd, and she kissed her fingertips and raised them to the skies – and then she leaned forward and patted the neck of her rose grey mare.

_Great girl. Well done._

Sugar And Spice flicked an ear as though to say, _you had doubts?_

*

In the end she placed fourth, just outside the individual medal slots. Some teenage prodigy from Breeland riding a horse named William took third place – but with Idis's first place finish, and with her and Déor inside the top ten, it was team gold for Rohan.

Théoden found her near the stalls, a little before she was due to take the podium.

“Bloody brilliant,” he told her, folding her into a tight hug.

She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of him – clean silk, leather, old wood. “Spice did most of the work.”

“You and I both know that isn't true.”

She held on for a few more moments, feeling her heart thud, leaning into the rise and fall of his chest. “What were you going to tell me?”

“About?”

“Countering bad luck.”

“Oh.” With his good hand he brushed a lock of hair back behind her ear. “Well, there is one very easy way.”

“Which is...?”

He smiled – the same knowing, teasing, kind-hearted smile that he'd given her the night the met, on the balcony outside the athletes' lounge – and he cupped her cheek with his left hand and kissed her deeply, sweetly on the mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> In the real world, cross country isn't an Olympic event in its own right; it forms part of the three day eventing programme. I took some liberties here because I didn't want to write dressage!
> 
> I borrowed a couple of layout and district ideas for Dol Amroth from LOTRO.


End file.
